


To Greet The Storm

by templeg



Category: Cabaret - Kander/Ebb, Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: (Grantaire is a drag act), (sort of), Alternate Universe - 1930s, Cabaret AU, Cosette and Eponine are Kit Kat girls, Drag Queens, Enjolras as Cliff Bradshaw, F/F, Grantaire as Sally Bowles, M/M, Montparnasse as the Emcee, This is kind of a hybrid Cabaret/Goodbye To Berlin AU, cabaret, mostly Cabaret but I thought Isherwood's background fit Enjolras better than Cliff's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2017-12-28 13:01:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/templeg/pseuds/templeg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is a drag act at the Kit Kat Klub. Enjolras doesn't really know what he's looking for in Berlin, but what he finds is Grantaire.</p><p>Cabaret!AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

‘It is permitted?’

Enjolras jolts out of his reverie, tearing his gaze away from the landscape rolling past the train window. The man in front of him is well-dressed enough that Enjolras’s hated English manners kick in automatically. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t-’ Belatedly, he notices that he’s gesturing at the empty seat opposite Enjolras. ‘Certainly. Of course.’ The man sits down, and, to Enjolras’s relief, doesn’t seem to want to continue the conversation. Enjolras goes back to looking out of the window.

‘You are English?’

Enjolras suppresses a sigh and turns back to his new companion. He’s a rather gaunt-looking man in perhaps his mid-forties, with dark circles under his eyes and his receding hair combed straight back. He seems harmless enough. ‘Yes.’ He can hear his mother’s voice chastising him for his abruptness, and adds reluctantly, ‘You have a beautiful country. I have always wanted to visit Berlin.’ Too late, he raises the potential implication of his words. Berlin is notorious, and young, effeminate men like him tend to gravitate towards it for a very specific reason. But his companion merely raises an eyebrow. Another silence falls. Enjolras hopes against hope that maybe he’ll give up on making conversation.

‘I am called Babet.’ He hesitates, but gives no Christian name.

‘Enjolras’, he replies, shaking Babet’s outstretched hand. He’s glad for the excuse not to give out his first name, not being particularly fond of it. Babet fishes out a silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket, polished and ornamented to a degree Enjolras’s mother would turn up her nose at. There are initials engraved in it, one of which is presumably the first letter of his Christian name. Enjolras doesn’t bother attempting to read them. Babet opens the case and takes out a cigarette, offering them to Enjolras. Enjolras takes one and allows Babet to light it for him from an equally ostentatious cigarette lighter. Babet smiles, leaning back in his seat. They smoke in silence for a few moments before the train jolts and slows. Enjolras jumps, glancing out of the window.

‘We are slowing for the German border’, Babet informs him.

‘You’ve taken this trip before?’ he asks, a little stiffly. Babet smiles, and Enjolras shifts a little in his seat, uncomfortable without quite knowing why.

‘Many, many times.’

The door to their carriage slides open, admitting a German customs officer. Babet sits up with a jerk.

‘Deutsche Grenzkontrolle. Ihre Pass, bitte.’

Enjolras starts. ‘Pardon?’

‘Your passport, if you please.’ Enjolras fishes it out of his pocket and hands it over. The guard glances at it, hands it back and stamps Enjolras’s bags without opening them, then turns to Babet. They have a brief exchange in German, too fast for Enjolras to follow. While the officer is busy going through Babet’s bag, Babet moves lightning-fast, placing his briefcase among Enjolras’s bags. Enjolras stares, unsure what just happened but reluctant to say anything. He’s still staring at Babet when the officer leaves, wishing him a happy new year. Babet catches his eye.

‘Forgive me. Baubles from Paris…silk stockings…but more than is permitted.’ Enjolras is silent. ‘You understand?’

Enjolras doesn’t, really, but he nods. ‘I suppose so.’

Babet looks relieved. ‘You are very understanding. I thank you.’ When Enjolras says nothing, he continues. ‘I would like to see to it that Berlin will welcome you. We begin tonight- the Kit Kat Klub! Telephones on every table- girls call you-’ He gives Enjolras an appraising look. ‘ _Boys_ call you, you call them. It is most…modern.’

Enjolras splutters. ‘I don’t- I mean-‘

Babet puts a hand on his knee, giving what might be intended as an understanding smile. Enjolras recoils. ‘Thank you, but I haven’t- that is to say- I haven’t yet made arrangements for my accommodation. I think I ought-’

‘You have no room? Ah, but this is no problem.’ For a moment, Enjolras is afraid Babet is going to invite him to stay with him. ‘Here.’ He fishes out a piece of paper, jotting down an address. ‘Just tell Fraulein Fantine that Herr Babet sent you.’

Enjolras hesitates before taking it. He know no-one in Berlin, has only the vaguest idea of how to go about looking for accommodation, and he’d rather not start the new year sleeping on the streets. ‘You’re very kind.’

Babet smiles. ‘Welcome to Berlin.’

 

 

 *****

 

Enjolras doesn’t quite know how Babet manages to talk him into coming to the Kit Kat Klub. He vanishes into the smoky air almost as soon as they’re seated, waving at someone across the room, and doesn’t return. Enjolras is left sitting alone at his small table, uncomfortably warm in his heavy suit and clutching a drink pressed into his hand by a muscular young waiter, the contents of which are entirely mysterious to him. He takes a tentative sip and chokes. His eyes water and he looks about the room, hoping to have gone unnoticed and cursing Babet for choosing such a central table.

Waiters, all young and attractive in their matching waistcoats, flit between the crowded tables. Several catch Enjolras’s eye as they pass and smile. One even winks. Enjolras shrinks into his seat and stares down at his hands as the room goes suddenly dark. The conversations around him dull to a murmur.

A man in black tie and tails steps out onto the stage, wearing a thick layer of makeup that almost obscures his features. His lips are painted an obscene cherry-red; his hair is carefully waved and set so firmly into place it looks solid, like a helmet. His eyes are dark and shadowed as he smiles out at the audience.

‘Meine Damen und Herren, Mesdames et Messieurs, Ladies and Gentlemen… the Kit Kat Klub is proud to present the international _sensation_ …We know his real name, but we’ll never tell. To you, he’s simply…R.’

 


	2. Chapter 2

Enjolras’s mouth falls a little open. The figure who steps out of the shadows is clad in a floor-length evening dress and fur stole. His lips are painted, but not like the clownish makeup the Emcee wore. This is a dark red that only highlights the fullness of his lips as he smiles. His muscular shoulders are bare under the thin straps of his halter-neck dress, and it should be comical, the way his muscles stretch the satin of the dress’s bust, like the dame from a pantomime Enjolras remembers being taken to as a child- yet somehow it isn’t. Enjolras can’t make himself look away.

‘Hello, darlings.’ R’s voice is low and intimate, as though he’s speaking only to Enjolras. ‘This song is for…’ He chuckles. Enjolras feels a shiver go down his spine. ‘Well, that would be telling, wouldn’t it?’ He takes a drag from his long cigarette holder as the opening chords of the piano sound out and Enjolras swallows, watching the way his lips wrap around the stem.

‘ _You have to understand the way I am…’_

 

*****

 

Enjolras feels dazed. Maybe it’s the atmosphere, the warm smoky air that seems to envelop him like a blanket, or maybe it’s the third mysterious, sticky drink that he doesn’t remember ordering. Or maybe it’s R’s voice, rough and warm and so _inviting_.

 

It takes him a moment to realise when the song ends. He joins in the clapping about ten seconds after everyone else. R smiles through the applause and turns to disappear offstage, blowing kisses over his shoulder. Enjolras makes an involuntary sound of disappointment, earning him a knowing look from the man at the next table.

He hasn’t seen Babet since he got here, and he wouldn’t care, but he’s not one hundred percent confident he remembers the way back to his lodgings. He looks around, not sure what to do, and half-stands before he feels a hand on his shoulder, warm even through his jacket.

‘You’re not leaving, are you?’

Enjolras sits back down with a thump. Face burning, he turns to see R, who appears to be suppressing a laugh.

‘Oh, I, er-’

‘You’re _English_.’ Belatedly, Enjolras realises that R is, too. He sits down opposite Enjolras. ‘What a relief. So long without the verbal constipation of the British upper class- I can’t tell you what an ordeal it’s been.’

Enjolras has a vague feeling that he’s being made fun of. He swallows the last of his drink. ‘I’m glad to be of service.’

‘Are you, darling? Do you know how you could keep on _servicing_ me?’

Enjolras feels his face heat up. ‘I- I don’t-’

R laughs. ‘Oh, nothing like that, I wouldn’t dream of it. Could you just keep talking? I’ve been positively _starved_.’

‘I…er…’ He casts around for something, anything, and his mind lands at random on a poem he remembers reading as a teenager, for the sole reason that his father had denounced the poet as a ‘traitor and a conchie’. ‘Everyone suddenly burst out singing, and I was filled with such delight as prisoned birds must find in freedom, winging wildly across the white…’

R closes his eyes, tilting his head back in a parody of ecstacy. ‘Oh, yes, darling. Don’t stop, please.’

Enjolras blushes, stammering over his words. ‘Orchards, and- and dark-green fields; on, on, and out of sight.’ He coughs. ‘Everyone’s voice was suddenly lifted, and beauty came like the setting sun…my heart was shaken with tears, and horror drifted away…O, but everyone was a bird, and the song was wordless, the singing will never be done.’

R lets out a drawn-out sigh that’s almost a moan. His eyes are still closed. ‘Oh, _thank_ you. Just what I needed.’ He opens his eyes and leans in. ‘You know, I don’t even know your name yet. My mother would be shocked.’

‘It’s Enjolras.’ He extends a hand to shake on reflex. R laughs. ‘After all that, all I get is a handshake? You wound me, Enjolras. And here I was going to tell you my real name.’

Enjolras opens his mouth, but the voice of the Emcee cuts across him, filling the smoky air.

‘Meine Damen und Herren, Mesdames et Messieurs, Ladies and Gentlemen…It is almost midnight. Husbands, you have only ten seconds in which to lose your wives. Ten… nine…’

 All around them, voices join in the countdown. R joins in as well, laughing. ‘Three…two…one…’

The room goes dark.

‘HAPPY NEW YEAR!’

In the darkness, warm lips press against Enjolras’s, leaving a taste of lipstick and alcohol. He feels warm breath on his ear, smells perfume.

‘It’s Grantaire.’

When the lights come back up, Grantaire is gone.

 

*****

 

Enjolras is arranging his books on his dingy room’s desk when there’s a knock at the door. Fraulein Fantine comes in.

‘Herr Enjolras, there is a young man to see you.’

He turns. ‘A young man?’

‘He said to tell you it was _R_. This is perhaps a code?’

Enjolras tries to ignore the way his heart thumps. ‘Oh, well, er. Yes, I suppose. Ask him to come in, please.’

She leaves, returning moments later in Grantaire’s wake. Somewhat to Enjolras’s relief, he’s dressed in men’s clothes today.

‘Enjolras! I’ve missed you so much, it’s been awful. I don’t know how I survived.’ He descends on Enjolras, kissing him soundly on the mouth. Fraulein Fantine coughs. Grantaire turns to her.

‘Could you be a dear and get my bag?’

Fraulein Fantine hurries out of the room again, muttering under her breath. Enjolras watches, mouth slightly open. He collects himself.

‘Your- I’m sorry, your _bag?_ ’

Grantaire grins. ‘Haven’t you heard? We’re going to be roommates.’ Enjolras stares at him. ‘Of course you haven’t heard, how could you have? I didn’t know until a few hours ago. It’s your fault, you know, being so angelically handsome, and reciting all that beautiful poetry…Montparnasse just couldn’t stand it. Kicked me out onto the street. So here I am, homeless, friendless…thank you, Fraulein Fantine, you’re so kind.’ Fraulein Fantine has returned, hovering just inside the room with a heavy-looking suitcase. ‘Just put it anywhere, I’ll unpack later.’

‘ _Unpack?’_ says Fraulein Fantine in a voice like lead, while Enjolras blinks rapidly and tries to process what just happened. ‘Herr Enjolras did not mention-’

‘It’s only a temporary measure, temporary as our fleeting existence. Only probably more so than that.’ Grantaire takes the suitcase from Fraulein Fantine’s hand and dumps it on the bed. She looks about how Enjolras feels.

‘I cannot allow-’

‘Fifty marks.’

‘It is not-’

‘Sixty.’

Fraulein Fantine opens her mouth, then closes it. ‘Sixty-five.’

‘Done.’ Grantaire smiles. She rolls her eyes and turns to leave. ‘I will let you get settled in.’

Enjolras watches her go in a daze. As soon as the door closes, Grantaire lets out a long breath.

‘That was fucking terrifying. Look, I’m shaking.’ He holds out a hand. Enjolras notices for the first time that he’s wearing bright green nail varnish.

Enjolras clears his throat. ‘About you staying-’

Grantaire deflates visibly. ‘Please don’t kick me out. Twice in one day would be a record even for me.’

‘I’m not going to kick you out.’

‘You’re not?’ Enjolras is as surprised as Grantaire, but he swallows and shakes his head. Grantaire lets out a breath and sits down on his suitcase.

‘You know what I’d love? Some gin. You’ve got some, haven’t you?’

‘I, uh-’

‘Well, we’ll soon fix that.’ There’s a pause while Enjolras attempts to collect himself.

‘Look’, he begins, ‘I don’t know where- I mean, well-’ He gestures vaguely around the room, blushing. ‘There’s only one…bed.’

Grantaire smiles. Enjolras’s mouth goes dry. He is so very, very fucked. ‘I’m sure we’ll think of something.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the poem Enjolras recites is Everyone Sang by Siegfried Sassoon, I feel awful for absolutely butchering the punctuation but reciting poetry is not Enjolras's strong suit.  
> come say hi on tumblr! i'm fastinganddrunk


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for internalised homophobia, regular ol' homophobia, mention of Hitler and Nazis (this is Berlin in 1931, after all), reclaimed slurs used in a not-reclaimed context.

Grantaire’s belongings take approximately half an hour to occupy every surface in Enjolras’s tiny room. Enjolras leaves to buy a loaf of bread and returns to find that his room appears to have been turned into the boudoir of a high-class courtesan. He stands in the doorway, mouth slightly open.

‘I unpacked’, says Grantaire, unnecessarily.

Enjolras’s mouth moves soundlessly for a moment. ‘I…can see that.’ He crosses to his desk, where his books have disappeared under what appears to be the contents of the entire haberdashery department at Liberty’s. Grantaire offers him a bottle. ‘Gin?’

‘Where did that come from?’ he asks. He sits down on the bed, and belatedly realises he’s sitting on a pile of silky, rather feminine-looking undergarments.

‘It was at the bottom of my suitcase, I forgot all about it’, Grantaire says cheerfully. ‘Come now, bottoms up. You look like you could use it.’ Enjolras shakes his head mutely. He’s barely been in Berlin two days and he’s living with a total stranger. He doesn’t know Grantaire’s full name. He doesn’t even know whether Grantaire is his first or last name.

‘Whereabouts in England did you say you were from?’ he asks, a little stiffly. It seems absurd to be making small talk this polite with someone whose belongings seem to have consumed his own in an unstoppable tidal wave, but then again the entire situation is absurd anyway.

Grantaire doesn’t say anything. ‘London?’, Enjolras presses, an edge of desperation to his voice. He doesn’t know why knowing where Grantaire comes from would make any of this less terrifying, but it would at least be something. ‘Stratford-upon-Avon? Stonehenge?’

‘Oh, Enjolras, darling. You mustn’t ever ask me questions.’

Enjolras’s eyebrows shoot up his face. ‘Why on Earth not?’

Grantaire pours some gin into Enjolras’s toothbrush mug and takes a swig. ‘If I want to tell you anything, I will.’

Enjolras has always been taught that it’s rude to press someone. However, he’s also been taught not to allow total strangers to move into his miniscule room and share his still more miniscule bed. Perhaps not explicitly, but the principle was there. ‘I don’t accept that.’

Grantaire folds his arms. ‘I don’t really care whether you do or not.’

‘I let you _move in with me-_ ‘

‘So throw me out.’

‘I don’t want to throw you out.’

‘Then what’s the problem?’

Enjolras puts his face in his hands. ‘You are _impossible_.’ Grantaire isn’t meeting his eyes. ‘Look, it’s not… I know _nothing_ about you. Can’t you see why that bothers me?’

‘You don’t want to know about me.’

‘Try me.’

Grantaire is looking at him now. He wishes he wasn’t. ‘All right. You want to know about me? I’m an alcoholic. I’ve fucked more men than you’ve met. I’m running from exactly the same sort of family as you, only I’m several years down the line. And you’re going to kick me out after a week or so anyway, so I don’t really give much of a fuck how you feel about me in the meantime. I’m just treading water until the next schmuck who’ll give me a bed for a few days. There, that was the story of my life. Do you feel better now?’

Enjolras gapes soundlessly for a moment. ‘You can’t tell me what I’m going to do.’

Grantaire laughs. ‘Yes, I can. It’s one of the few constants in my life.’

‘Don’t you think if we got to know each other, maybe-’

‘My delightful personality would win you over?’

‘Probably not, no.’

Grantaire smiles and drinks from his mug of gin. ‘See? You are capable of learning.’

Enjolras sighs. ‘Did it occur to you that I might actually be curious?’

‘Everyone’s curious. Doesn’t make telling them a good idea.’

‘Just tell me one thing about you. Please.’

Grantaire rolls his eyes. ‘You go first.’

Enjolras has the feeling Grantaire is stalling, but he decides to indulge him. ‘My family is from Hereford-’

‘Not your family. You.’ Enjolras is silent. ‘Oh, come on. Why did you come to Berlin?’

Enjolras thinks. There are plenty of reasons people come to Berlin. There are certainly plenty of reasons men like him come to Berlin. But some instinct spurs him to honesty. ‘It’s just another place.’

Grantaire smiles. ‘You sound almost like me.’

He folds his arms and regards Grantaire. ‘It’s your turn.’

‘I’m really not that interesting-’

‘Your turn.’

‘Fine.’ Grantaire stares at the ceiling for a moment, puffing out his cheeks. ‘Okay. I got kicked out of school when I was sixteen. They caught me with a boy. Plus the collection of lipsticks at the bottom of my suitcase didn’t exactly help my case. They dragged me home in disgrace, I had tutors for a while. There’s only so many times you can hear your father call you a degenerate before it loses all meaning. Anyway, apparently I didn’t learn my lesson, because they caught me with a valet. I packed a suitcase, stole some money and here I am.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Grantaire’s eyes are hard. ‘Why?’

Enjolras opens and closes his mouth, struggling to speak. ‘I… my parents were like yours, I think. But they didn’t…I was the only son. The heir. They never said it outright, but there was a certain amount I could get away with. I said I wanted to leave, that I was going to travel, and Mother couldn’t throw the money at me fast enough.’ He smiles to himself. ‘I think she hopes I’ll get it out of my system.’

‘Being queer?’

Enjolras winces. ‘That, among other things. Honestly I don’t think it bothered her as much as the politics.’

‘Let me guess. You’re a Communist.’

‘Socialist.’

Grantaire smirks. ‘Don’t say that too loudly around here.’

‘Yes, I’ve been reading up on German politics.’ He extracts a book from under a silk kimono and hands it to Grantaire. Grantaire turns it gingerly over in his hands and tosses it back to the floor, where it stares up at him, title up. _Mein Kampf._

‘He’s a madman’, Enjolras says, looking down at the book. ‘Can’t people see that?’

Grantaire laughs at him. ‘I’ve been here since 1922. The Germans have seen their fair share of madmen. They’ll see plenty more. After a while, it just sort of stops registering.’ He peers into Enjolras’s blank face. ‘Oh, come on, Enjolras. It was the Communists, now it’s the Nazis. Next it’ll be- who even gives a fuck? What has any of that got to do with us? I just keep moving from bed to bed, and I don’t give a shit who any of those people get out of bed and vote for.’

Enjolras clenches his fists. ‘You can’t really believe that.’

Grantaire shrugs. ‘What does it matter what I believe?’

‘So you’ll just stand by and let them-’

‘You’re right. There’s so much I could do. I hear that Nazis drop dead at the sight of a queer in a dress.’ Enjolras is frozen.

‘You’re not just-’

‘How would you know?’

Enjolras hesistates. ‘I…can tell.’

‘You don’t sound very sure.’

Enjolras sets his jaw. ‘I am.’


	4. Chapter 4

Éponine checks her reflection one last time, pursing her lips to check that her lipstick hasn’t smudged. It’s boiling in their dressing room, nine girls crammed into one windowless room, and every surface is strewn with powder, discarded lipstick, feathers and sequins from costumes. She turns away from herself in the mirror to see Cosette, struggling with her corset and near tears. Girls grumble at her as she elbows her way across the room. She ignores them.

‘You okay?’

Cosette’s cheeks are pink. Her hands are behind her back, fumbling at the uppermost hook of her corset.  ‘I can’t-’ She lets out a huff and throws her hands in the air. ‘I must be getting fatter.’

‘Shh. Here, just hold still.’ Cosette stills, sucking in a breath, and Éponine fastens the hook for her. She fights the urge to press a kiss to Cosette’s shoulder. Cosette leans back into her touch, and several of the girls exchange knowing glances that Éponine studiously ignores.

Cosette turns to her. ‘Do I look okay?’

Éponine swallows. ‘You look beautiful.’ She gives in, pressing a careful kiss to Cosette’s lips. Cosette smiles.

‘My lipstick...’

‘We’re wearing the same lipstick, dummy.’

‘Oh, get a room, would you?’ snaps Louison, leaning past Éponine to get at the mirror. Éponine is about to say something in return but the first tinny notes of the overture sound. The chatter in the room drops to a murmur. Cosette draws in a deep breath. She still gets nervous. Éponine thinks it’s adorable.

‘ _Meine Damen und Herren…’_

****

           

 

Éponine gazes out into the darkness of the audience, smile fixed in place, and tries to ignore the bead of sweat trickling down the left side of her nose. She’s almost blinded by the floodlights, Montparnasse’s voice barely registering as she focuses on her hips: up-down, up-down, up-down. Like a metronome.

Cosette is directly in front of her. Where Éponine is on autopilot, Cosette is focused. She tries way too hard. It’s not like the old farts drooling in the front row are going to be turned off if her smile isn’t real. But her hips sway, up and down, up and down, filling Éponine’s vision.

Éponine swallows. Montparnasse is behind her now, leering at the audience as he tells the same tired jokes she’s heard more nights in a row than she can count. She moves as he touches her, throwing her head back as she’s done hundreds of times, and Cosette’s hips rocking back and forth in their lacy pants are all she can see.

 

*****

 

Cosette’s breath is hot in her ear as they pile offstage, cramming themselves into the narrow corridor. One of the girls- Éponine can’t see who- stops to take off her shoes, causing a pileup. Éponine elbows her way through the tangle of bickering, sweaty girls- tempers are always high at the end of a night, and she doesn’t linger- dragging Cosette with her. Cosette sits down hard on the floor as soon as they get away from the girls, collapses really, and Éponine is crouched by her side in seconds.

‘What is it?’

Cosette is biting her lip hard, and her eyes are too bright. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘Don’t give me that bull. What’s wrong?’

Tears well in Cosette’s eyes. ‘It’s my feet’, she whispers. ‘I can’t- they _hurt_.’ It’s the surprise in her voice, the disbelief when the world hurts her, that makes Éponine angry in a way she doesn’t really understand. She bends and undoes Cosette’s shoes, slipping them off one and then the other, and presses a kiss to Cosette’s ankle. Cosette giggles, though her eyes are still watery. Her feet are red and blistered, and when Éponine touches them Cosette sucks in a breath through her teeth.

‘How are we going to get home?’ Her voice is very small.

‘I’ll carry you.’ It comes out automatically. Even Éponine is surprised at it. Cosette is staring at her. ‘You can’t-’

‘I can.’ Éponine isn’t surprised this time at the strength in her own voice.

 

*****

It’s only a few streets from the Klub to Fantine’s lodging-house. Plenty of people stare- a girl in heavy makeup and a thin coat carrying another girl in her arms- but Cosette’s arms are around Éponine’s neck and her breath is warm against the hollow of Éponine’s collarbone and Éponine does not give a fuck what anyone thinks. Fantine is sitting at the table of their tiny apartment when they get in, and her eyes are tired as they take in Cosette’s exhausted shape, but she doesn’t follow them when Éponine carries Cosette straight into their room. She deposits her on the bed and crawls in beside her, pulling the blanket over them both. Cosette is half-asleep, but she shifts closer to Éponine, pulling her down into her arms.

Éponine kisses down Cosette’s neck, over her stomach, and Cosette makes tiny noises as she goes, barely more than breaths.

‘You won’t be offended if I fall asleep, will you?’

Éponine grins up at Cosette from somewhere around her navel. ‘You have such a dirty mind.’ She moves further down, kissing Cosette’s knees and down her legs, and Cosette makes a put-out little noise, sticking out her lower lip at Éponine. Éponine pulls off her stockings, discarding them somewhere in the stew of clothes on their floor, and takes Cosette’s foot in her hands, kneading the cracked heel with her thumbs. Cosette sighs happily and her eyes flutter shut.

They fall asleep wrapped in their thin blanket and each other, still dressed, without even taking off their makeup. Éponine knows they’ll have to spend hours washing their faces in the morning, but Cosette’s hair is tickling her nose and she’s beginning to snore, just quietly- she has the beginnings of a cold, Éponine thinks, she’s going to force her to wear a hat however much it messes up her hair- and she just can’t bring herself to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, these two are pretty much gonna take over the fic. I haven't been able to get the idea of Cosette and Éponine as Kit Kat Girls out of my head ever since I heard that joke in Wilkommen ('Oh, you like Lulu? Well too bad, so does Rosie.') That's probably the 'tired joke' Éponine refers to.


	5. Chapter 5

Enjolras sticks his head out of his room at four o’clock in the morning to go to the bathroom to find the landing rather more populated than he’d expected. Herr Courfeyrac, who lives across the hall but seems to be nocturnal, is lounging against his doorframe in a black silk dressing gown and- so it would appear- nothing else. His hair is tousled and sweaty, and he has an enormous purplish-red mark just below his jaw that even Enjolras can identify. Fraulein Fantine, in curlers and dressing gown, is a tower of rage.

‘That sailor’, she hisses. ‘Out, out of my house! How many times have I warned you about your sailors?’

Courfeyrac looks innocently wounded. ‘Sailor? What sailor?’

A voice emanates from his bedroom, masculine and not a little drunken. ‘Courf? Come back to bed…’

Courfeyrac barely winces, though Fraulein Fantine is practically emitting sparks. ‘Oh, _that_ sailor. Why, Fraulein, that sailor is my…brother.’

Fraulein Fantine barely raises an eyebrow, but it speaks volumes. Even Enjolras, skulking in his doorway and as-yet unnoticed, takes an involuntary step back. ‘Your brother.’

‘Courf?’ A large, muscular man, clad in a great many tattoos and nothing else, appears around the door. On seeing Fraulein Fantine, he covers his crotch with a sailor’s hat. He doesn’t seem remotely embarrassed, instead offering his hand to Fraulein Fantine. She takes it, extremely gingerly, and he kisses her hand with a loud _smack._ Enjolras can’t help but notice that his hat seems to be staying in place without help from either of his hands.

‘Fraulein Fantine, this is Bahorel, my brother from Hamburg. Bahorel, Fraulein-’

‘OUT’, says Fraulein Fantine. Her curlers are quivering with rage. Even Bahorel shrinks a little. He blows her a kiss and disappears back into Courfeyrac’s room. Courfeyrac scratches sheepishly at the back of his head and offers Fraulein Fantine a smile that would charm practically any woman but the one in front of him.

Fraulein Fantine closes her eyes. She appears to be counting to ten. ‘I am going back to bed. When I wake up, my house is going to be sailor-free.’

Courfeyrac nods, looking convincingly contrite. ‘Of course, Fraulein.’

She purses her lips, but nods. ‘Good night. And good night to you too, Herr Enjolras.’

 Enjolras chokes and shrinks back into his room. Courfeyrac catches his eye and winks.

‘Feel free to drop by anytime. I’m just across the hall. Bring your handsome friend!’

He turns and slinks back into his room, closing the door with a _swish_ of his satin-clad hips.

 

*****

Éponine takes a drag of her cigarette and stamps her feet in the cold. The alley behind the Kit Kat Klub is littered with garbage and smells like a sewer, and it’s way below freezing. And yet she’d far rather be out here than back in the Klub, rehearsing some number Montparnasse came up with when he was high that he now expects her to be a part of. She’s wearing a fucking _dirndl._ Her hair is in looped plaits on either side of her head, tied with red gingham ribbons. And did she mention the _dirndl?_

She finishes her cigarette and stamps the butt out in the snow. Inside, Montparnasse and Jehan are still bickering over the number. It’s a song about threesomes, because Montparnasse thinks he’s a lot funnier than he is, and naturally he’s cast himself as the only man of the three, with two adoring women tending to his every need. Éponine can just about take the making goo-goo eyes at Montparnasse and the utter inanity of the lyrics (maybe ‘beedly-deedly-dee’ meant something to Montparnasse’s stoned mind, but she’s fucked if it does to anyone else). She waved goodbye to her dignity many years ago. It’s just that he insisted on casting Jehan as the other ‘lady’.

Éponine throws caution to the wind and lights another cigarette. So what if they cost five marks a packet and she’s almost out? She’s staying out here as long as she can. It’s not bad enough that Jehan has had more than enough jokes made at the expense of his feminine appearance over the years, and so is more likely than usual to snap at Montparnasse when he’s dressed in a dirndl and lipstick. No, Montparnasse had to start fucking him as well, after whatever arrangement he had with Grantaire blew in a predictably upwards fashion. Between Jehan’s squeals whenever Montparnasse sticks his hand up the back of his skirt (frequent) and their catfights (more frequent still) Éponine is willing to risk frostbite a little longer rather than go back in there.

She hasn’t heard anything break in over twenty minutes, and her fingers are literally turning blue, so she heads reluctantly back into the Klub, dragging her feet for warmth as much as anything else.

'If you are done pulling each other’s hair-’

As it turns out, they are not. Montparnasse is sprawled over the side of the stage, ridiculous lederhosen around his ankles, and Jehan is bent over him with what appears to be almost an entire hand up his arse. Éponine has had enough.

‘This is the new choreography, is it?’

Montparnasse shrieks and scrambles around, fumbling with the stupid buckles on his stupid lederhosen. Éponine dearly hopes he catches one of them on his dick. Jehan just perches himself on the side of the stage, watching Montparnasse hop about trying to get back into his lederhosen, which is admittedly an amusing sight.

‘You’ve only got your vanity to blame’, she says, crossing her arms and offering no help. He hasn’t even managed to get his underpants up, and watching his lily-white arse bob around is the most entertaining part of her day so far. Admittedly, the standard has not been high. ‘You didn’t have to make them so tight, you know.’

Montparnasse heaves up his lederhosen with one almighty, undignified grunt. ‘You just miss me, darling. You were the one who gave all this up.’

Éponine raises an eyebrow and looks him pointedly up and down. Montparnasse huffs at her. She watches for any sign that he might be about to burst into tears.

‘I think we’ve rehearsed enough for today’, he snaps, turning on his heel. Thank Heaven for the diva storm-out; she was beginning to think she’d never get out of here. She waves cheerfully as they leave, Jehan dragging Montparnasse by the hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Two Ladies I really do but Éponine does not appreciate having to call Montparnasse 'ze ooonlyyyy man, ja'. If you don't know, one of the two 'ladies' is usually a man in drag so it seemed like a good way to get Jehan in there, as well as an opportunity for some ritual humiliation of Montparnasse, my very favourite thing to write.  
> lbr was Courfeyrac ever going to not be Fraulein Kost I think not.  
> HI BAHOREL DICK JOKES LOL I AM FIVE  
> this was one of my favourite chapters to write I am so much better at writing this shit than I am at the actual plot.


	6. Chapter 6

Enjolras thinks he’s probably the only person in Fraulein Fantine’s rooms who isn’t making passionate love nightly (and daily, and mid-morningly). Herr Courfeyrac has his sailors, stumbling into the bathroom naked in the small hours of the morning and getting what he thinks is engine grease all over the soap. Fraulein Fantine’s daughter Cosette, who works at the Klub, shares her room with a friend, and he may not be very observant when it comes to people but he doesn’t think it’s entirely an arrangement of necessity. Even Fraulein Fantine has a gentleman caller, Herr Valjean, who sells fruit in a shop on the Nollendorfplatz and brought her a pineapple that she insisted on showing to everyone in the building.

It’s not that he doesn’t think Grantaire is interested. But it’s difficult to tell with Grantaire. He never seems to be serious about anything, and what if that kiss in the Klub was just another one of his strange jokes? Maybe he kisses all his friends like that. Not that Enjolras is even sure they are friends. After all, Grantaire is only here because he had no other option. He doesn’t know why else he’d be here. Half a narrow, rickety bed is hardly an attractive proposition for sixty-five marks a week.

They’ve been living together a week when the perpetual backache from lying poker-stiff in bed, trying not to touch Grantaire, overwhelms even his English reserve. Grantaire is alternately painting his toenails and swigging neat gin from the bottle when Enjolras asks.

‘What- I mean to say, what exactly- are we lovers?’

Grantaire snorts. ‘If we were, don’t you think you’d have noticed?’

Enjolras bites back his disappointment. ‘Of course. I’m sorry I-’

‘Would you like us to be?’ Grantaire’s speech is over-careful, and Enjolras can’t tell if he’s being mocked again or if this is…something else. He doesn’t say anything. Grantaire’s expression changes.

‘Never mind, darling. I’m an acquired taste, not for everyone.’

‘Yes’, Enjolras blurts out. He can feel himself blushing scarlet. Grantaire puts the brush back in the nail varnish and turns to him.

‘Say that again?’

Enjolras is staring fixedly at his toes. ‘I- er-’

Grantaire laughs. There’s a note of relief in it. ‘You’re so hopelessly English.’

‘So are you’, Enjolras mutters. He wants to do something bold, to sweep Grantaire off his feet, to throw him over the nearest surface and- well, he doesn’t let himself think that far. But he can’t even tear his gaze away from the floor.

‘I have thrown off my English inhibitions and live a life of debauchery, filled with booze and marvelous parties and still more marvelous fucking. Though not so much of that, lately.’ He looks at Enjolras sideways. ‘Oh, fuck it.’ Grantaire crosses the room in a single motion and kisses Enjolras.

Enjolras freezes for a moment, unsure of what to do. There have been a few awkward kisses at school, in the woods where they hid to skive off cricket, sharing cigarettes and the occasional fumbling kiss- but never anything like this. Grantaire’s lips are warm and demanding. His skin prickles where Grantaire’s hands brush over his jaw, his neck. Enjolras moans as Grantaire crowds him backwards onto the bed and breaks away, blushing.

‘I’m sorry- I don’t-’

‘Enjolras?’

‘I suppose you should know…I haven’t exactly…’ He trails off, averting his gaze.

Grantaire draws in a breath. ‘Oh.’

‘I don’t want to disappoint you-’

Grantaire takes Enjolras’s face in his hands. ‘You worry too much.’ His kiss is careful, and Enjolras doesn’t want careful. He’s frustrated at himself, at his own awkwardness, his stupid insufficiencies and inhibitions, and he kisses back probably much too hard, tangling his hands tight in Grantaire’s hair. He pulls Grantaire on top of him and Grantaire huffs, surprised and a little breathless.

‘What happened to that English reserve?’

Enjolras groans, pulling Grantaire down to kiss him. ‘Fuck English reserve. Fuck the English.’

‘I hate to break it to you’, Grantaire says, trailing kisses down Enjolras’s jaw- and _oh_ , that feels amazing, why has he never done this before- ‘but you sort of are.’ His fingers have reached the buttons of Enjolras’s shirt. Enjolras feels giddy. This, this is why he came to Berlin. Grantaire is bizarre and maddening and he makes Enjolras breathless. Enjolras fumbles with the buttons of his shirt, his fingers clashing with Grantaire’s, and Grantaire laughs.

 ‘Such a hasty boy. I have done this before, you know.’

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but concedes the point, letting Grantaire make short work of the buttons. He slips out of his shirt, and feels a tiny thrill at letting it drop somewhere on the floor. Grantaire tugs his undershirt over his head and Enjolras feels suddenly very exposed. No-one has seen him undressed since school, and then only in the changing rooms. He looks down at his pale, narrow chest and glances away, embarrassed. Grantaire lets out a breath.

‘Just look at you.’

Enjolras huffs. ‘I’d rather not.’

‘Well, then, I’ll just have to.’ Grantaire skims rough fingers down Enjolras’s chest, a thumb catching on Enjolras’s nipple. Enjolras shivers.

‘Aren’t you going to, uh…disrobe?’ As soon as he says it, he regrets his choice of words. He can feel his face burning. Grantaire just laughs.

‘Don’t worry. I won’t deny you my breathtaking physique any longer.’ He unbuttons his shirt seemingly in one motion- he really has done this many times before- and pulls it and his undershirt off. Enjolras takes in a sharp breath, unable to tear his eyes away from the muscles of his shoulders, the trail of hair on his abdomen. His hands come tentatively up to run up Grantaire’s sides and Grantaire smiles wickedly and seals his lips around a spot on Enjolras’s neck that makes him gasp, sending a jolt through his stomach. He trails his mouth downwards until his teeth close on Enjolras’s nipple and Enjolras lets out a shout that makes him cover his mouth with his hand.

‘Fraulein Fantine…’

Grantaire raises his head. ‘Please, darling, don’t say Fraulein Fantine’s name in bed. I know I can’t compete with her feminine mystique, but I do my best.’

Enjolras blushes. ‘No, I mean…she’ll hear…’

Grantaire rolls his eyes. ‘Enjolras, last night Courfeyrac had what sounded like the male lead of the Deutsche Oper Berlin in his room. You slept with bits of newspaper in your ears.’

‘Yes, but-’ Grantaire’s lips wrap, wet and hot, around his nipple, and Enjolras’s head thuds back against the pillows. He can almost feel Grantaire grinning, and he would be indignant but his lips are trailing slowly over the plane of his ribs, his stomach, leaving a sticky trail, and he can’t think of anything much at all, except- did he just unbutton Enjolras’s fly with his _teeth_?

 Enjolras lets out a ragged gasp, resisting the urge to stuff his fist in his mouth. Grantaire gets his trousers and underwear down over his hips and before he has time to think his mouth sinks down onto Enjolras’s cock, wet and unbelievably hot. Enjolras moans ‘ _Grantaire-’_ and the whole building must hear but he can’t think about anything but trying to control himself. His hips buck involuntarily and he’s terrified of hurting Grantaire, at the very least it can’t be good sexual etiquette, but Grantaire just moans and takes him deeper. His lips drag against Enjolras’s cock and Enjolras writhes, hands clutching desperately at the sheets.

He forces his eyes open, wanting to see. Grantaire’s lips are pink and wet and stretched obscenely around his cock, and his throat bobs as he moves. He hollows his cheeks, pulling his lips up Enjolras’s shaft in one slow, torturous motion, and Enjolras’s legs buckle.

‘Fuck- Grantaire, oh god, _please-_ ’

Grantaire hums around him, taking him down still further. His cock hits the back of Grantaire’s throat and it sends him over the edge, all inhibitions lost, bucking into Grantaire’s mouth as he comes with a garbled string of sounds that aren’t even words.

Grantaire pulls off, smirking. His lips look bruised, shiny and almost red. ‘Who would have thought you’d be so loud?’

Enjolras blushes. ‘Was I really-’

‘Don’t worry. I have that effect on people.’

‘I’m sure you do.’ He feels languid, relaxed. ‘I have no idea how to do what you just did.’

‘Enjolras, you’re a novice. It takes practice to get to my level.’ He smirks, and Enjolras’s heart thumps. ‘We can always make a start, though, can’t we?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boy howdy do i ever hate writing smut  
> it genuinely boggles my mind when people are like OMG THAT WAS SO HOT i'm like ,,really though i wrote it at 4am rolling my head back and forth across the keyboard between sentences and whining  
> sorry if i ruined the magic  
> i really don't ship valjean/fantine so much so i couldn't bring myself to put them in the relationship tags but he's the only person who really works as herr schultz so,,


	7. Chapter 7

Enjolras is at his typewriter when Grantaire comes in late one evening in March, traces of makeup still evident in the unnaturally red shade of his lips. He stares at what he has for a long moment, then makes a noise of disgust and rips the carbon out.

Grantaire sits down on the bed. ‘What are you writing?’

He screws the paper into a ball and tosses it aside. ‘Not much, currently.’

Grantaire picks it up, attempting to smooth it out. ‘What are you not writing, then?’

‘Nothing.’ His tone is abrupt, the result of hours of frustration, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Grantaire wince, though he tries his best to hide it. Enjolras sighs, running his hands through his hair.

‘I sometimes write pieces for the _Daily Worker_. I’m supposed to be writing about the political climate in Berlin, but…’ he waves his hands frustratedly. ‘I haven’t exactly been…’

‘It’s my fault, I suppose. If I wasn’t always dragging you off to party after party, entirely against your will…’

Enjolras is silent.

‘Poor Enjolras. I am rather distracting, aren’t I?’

‘You’re right’, Enjolras snaps, banging the typewriter case shut. ‘How could I possibly accomplish anything with you around?’

Grantaire goes very still. After a long moment he nods once, stands up and opens his case, shoving random items of clothing in one at a time.

‘You know, I’ve never stayed so long with anyone. Almost three months. My mother will be so proud.’

Enjolras stares, unable to process what’s happening. He knew that it couldn’t last, that he couldn’t possibly be interesting enough to keep Grantaire’s attention, but he can’t help but feel the sting. ‘I suppose you’ve had a better offer?’

Grantaire laughs, flinging things into his suitcase. A long bead necklace rattles as it hits the bottom, like a snatch of a hailstorm. ‘Oh, dozens! One must keep mobile, mustn’t one?’ He slams his case shut and turns for the door.

‘Don’t go.’ The words are out of his mouth before he realises he’s saying them.

Grantaire freezes. He doesn’t speak.

‘Please.’ Enjolras swallows, his lips suddenly dry. ‘Please don’t go.’

Grantaire turns. ‘What?’

Enjolras can’t speak. His throat seems to have closed up.

‘One must keep mobile, mustn’t one?’ Grantaire says quietly. Enjolras feels a surge of anger flare within his chest.

‘Get out then, if you’re so desperate to leave.’

‘What the fuck is your problem?’

‘Maybe I- I need you here.’ He feels intensely foolish, but forces himself to continue. ‘Did you think of that?’ Grantaire is silent. ‘I’ve never felt this…you know.’

Grantaire laughs. ‘You could have your own act, darling. Ask at the Klub, I’m sure they’d take you on.’

Enjolras suppresses another wave of anger. ‘I’m not joking.’

Grantaire doesn’t move. Enjolras takes the suitcase gently out of his hand and sets it down. ‘I want you here.’

Grantaire lets out a huff of breath. He seems to struggle for words for a long time. ‘If you insist, then, darling.’

‘I’m afraid I do.’ Enjolras takes Grantaire’s wrist and guides him to the bed, sitting him down on the edge. Grantaire sits staring at his lap.

‘Grantaire? What is it?’

Grantaire indicates a half-full bottle of gin on the bedside table. ‘That was the last of my money from the Klub.’

‘Oh.’ Enjolras stares at the bottle. ‘I- well, that is- Grantaire, I have money.’

‘That must be nice for you.’

‘I can pay your rent. We already share food-’

Grantaire looks up at him. ‘If you’re waiting for me to say no, you’re going to be disappointed. I’m not that good a person.’

Enjolras huffs. ‘Well then.’ He doesn’t actually think he has enough to cover the rent for both of them- he’ll have to write to his mother, which he hasn’t done since he left home. But that’s a minor detail.

‘I suppose this makes me your kept woman’, Grantaire says, raising his eyebrow in the way he thinks is seductive. It is, but only because there are few things he does that Enjolras doesn’t find seductive. He doesn’t rise to the bait, getting out his typewriter and feeding in a blank sheet of paper.

‘Write about Berlin’s corrupt, seedy underworld, and the spectacular fall into sin and iniquity of a once respectable young Englishman’, Grantaire suggests. His breath brushes Enjolras’s ear. ‘It’s guaranteed to sell.’

 

_22 nd March, 1931_

_             My dear friend Combeferre _

_            I am sorry not to have written sooner. I enclose the piece I promised you, and I hope you will forgive its lateness, as well as the somewhat unusual subject matter. I don’t know if the Worker will print it- I would not be surprised if they did not- but I hope it will give you some idea of why I have been so distracted from our cause over the last few months. Or amuse you, at least, with the people I have found myself surrounded by.  _

_             I sound like my mother. Forgive me.  _

_             As you can probably glean, Grantaire and I are intimate. I don’t know if you have been intimate with anyone since I left, or, now I think about it, ever, apart from those few moments we shared at school. That was an oversight on my part, I should have asked. I have never met someone so unlike myself, and as narcissistic as it sounds, I certainly wouldn’t have expected to feel the way I do about him.  _

_             Truthfully, I think I’m a little out of my depth. I’m not used to being so inexperienced. I’m sure you think I had it coming. Perhaps it’s doing me good.  _

_             Enjolras.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'one must keep mobile, mustn't one' is so far my favourite sally-ism that i've made into an r-ism, i think it fits him really well  
> HI COMBEFERRE no he will not be appearing sorry but i needed enjolras to have at least one friend in england. i might at some point do a oneshot flashback to them at school together after i've finished the actual fic because ADORABLE AWKWARD PUBLIC SCHOOLBOY SMOOCHES. but yh just imagine him rolling his eyes at literally every sentence in that letter, because christ enjolras you are a dick  
> i am very annoyed at myself for unintentionally doing that thing where enjolras and combeferre are besties and courfeyrac is left out but there was just no way he was ever not going to be fraulein kost, so. i apologise for that.


	8. Chapter 8

 The first thing Jehan sees when he wakes up is the signed photograph of Marlene Dietrich on Montparnasse’s bedroom wall. He smirks to himself, shifting underneath the ridiculous, ostentatious pink satin bedspread. Montparnasse himself is still fast asleep, mouth slightly open as he drools into the pillow. His curls are rumpled, and when Jehan moves to get up he discovers that Montparnasse’s hand is clenched firmly around his wrist.

Montparnasse snores. Sleeping, he looks less the sophisticated, cynical satirist he believes himself to be (or pretends he does), more an overgrown child. His full, slightly parted pink lips move gently, and he looks peaceful. Jehan strokes a finger down his cheekbone, admiring his perfect bone structure- one of his many attractive qualities- and slips out of bed, padding naked across the room to the sink.

He’s brushing his teeth when a lewd whistle comes from the bed. Montparnasse is smirking, and when he props himself up on an elbow Jehan notices with smug pride the blossoming bite mark on his collarbone.

‘This is a nice view to wake up to’, Montparnasse says, eyes raking up and down Jehan’s body. Jehan rolls his eyes, spits in the sink and indulges him with part of the choreography from the Klub’s latest number, which involves a hip-shimmy he’s especially proud of. Really, he thinks, it’s almost a waste to do it with clothes on. Montparnasse’s eyes follow every movement of his hips, lips still slightly parted. Jehan moves about the room, humming to himself and fully aware of Montparnasse’s gaze. He bends over to pick up his dressing gown and Montparnasse gives a stifled squeak from the bed.

Jehan turns, smirking. ‘You alright there?’

Montparnasse turns pink. ‘I’d be better if you’d get back over here.’

He slips back into bed, immediately dragged under the satin bedspread by Montparnasse, who tugs at his wrists in a way that he thinks is manly and commanding but is actually more like a small child trying to get its mother’s attention. Jehan grins at him, pretending to succumb to Montparnasse’s ‘strength’ before flipping him onto his back and straddling him, pinning his wrists to the mattress. Montparnasse whimpers.

‘Nice try’, Jehan whispers, lips brushing Montparnasse’s ear. Montparnasse squirms, feet scraping at the sheets but failing to gain a hold. He tries to pout at Jehan, but his eyes are already glassy with lust and it lacks a certain conviction.

‘Unfair tactics’, he mutters. Jehan laughs at him. ‘Maybe you’d have more of a chance if you didn’t love losing so much.’ Montparnasse starts to complain, but Jehan tweaks his nipple hard, digging in with his fingernails, and Montparnasse yells, throwing his head back against the pillow. It’s a good thing he has this apartment to himself since Grantaire left, Jehan thinks. Montparnasse can be very loud _._ He shifts his hips under Jehan, already hard against his stomach, his breathing shallow. ‘Come on, Jehan…’

Jehan bends over him, scraping his nails over Montparnasse’s chest. He brushes his fingers over the red tracks he leaves and Montparnasse squirms, fighting to restrain himself. ‘Come on what?’

Montparnasse sets his jaw, refusing to speak. He’s incredibly stubborn and hates admitting defeat, which only makes it all the more satisfying when he inevitably breaks down. Jehan rolls his hips slowly against Montparnasse’s, looking him in the eye all the time, and Montparnasse stifles a gasp, turning his face away. He digs his nails into Montparnasse’s hips as he grinds against him, leaving red welts. Montparnasse groans, bucking his hips. ‘Come _on…’_

‘Ask nicely’, Jehan hisses, and catches Montparnasse’s nipple between his teeth. Montparnasse shrieks, not bothering to attempt to keep his voice down. ‘Please, Jehan, please, I’m fucking asking, okay?'

Jehan smirks, sliding off him- Montparnasse makes a little whine of protest that he attempts to disguise as a cough- and grabbing a tin from the nightstand. Montparnasse whimpers, spreading his legs and pulling Jehan’s hand between them. ‘Jehan, please-‘

‘Shh’, Jehan grins, dragging his nails up the insides of Montparnasse’s thighs. ‘You’ll wake the neighbours.’

‘There aren’t any fucking neighbours, you _bastard_. I wouldn’t give a fuck if there were. I wouldn’t give a fuck if all of Berlin- _oh_ -’ He breaks off as Jehan slips a lubricated finger into him. Jehan grins as Montparnasse pushes back against his hand, his breath coming in short bursts. Montparnasse is hot and tight around him, and he can’t bring himself to make him wait too long before he adds another, dragging them as slowly as he can. He waits until Montparnasse’s curls are thoroughly tangled with sweat before adding a third.

‘Fuck you’, Montparnasse gets out. Jehan grins and twists his fingers inside him, making him gasp and buck his hips into empty air.

‘Not this time, I’m afraid, my darling.’ Hardly ever, in fact.

‘Fucking bastard I hate you I hate you so fucking much’, he says all in one breath, canting his hips upwards. Jehan takes pity on him, wrapping a hand around his cock. ‘Jehan- Jehan I swear to god if you don’t fuck me in the next thirty seconds I am going to rip your dick off, you-’

Jehan takes his hand away from Montparnasse’s cock, and Montparnasse whimpers loudly. ‘You’re so demanding’, he says, slowing his fingers until they’re barely moving at all. Montparnasse writhes, fucking himself on Jehan’s fingers, and when Jehan pulls them out he lets out a long whine of frustration.

‘Fuck me, for fuck’s sake, I swear-’

‘Patience is a virtue, you know.’ Jehan slicks up his cock and lines himself up with Montparnasse’s hole. Montparnasse whines as soon as he feels Jehan’s cock against him, trying to push his hips down to meet him.

‘When the fuck have you known me to be virtuous?’

‘Never, thank god’, Jehan says, and pushes into him. Montparnasse’s back arches and he screams. His legs wrap around Jehan’s waist, encircling him, his heels pressing into the backs of Jehan’s thighs. Jehan feels trapped in the best way, Montparnasse tight and hot around his cock, his nails scraping his back. His hips slam down to meet Jehan’s thrusts, and he moans with each one.

‘Jehan- Jehan, fuck, _please-_ ’

Jehan slows deliberately, savouring the drag around his cock. Montparnasse whimpers, his voice breaking, and his eyelashes are suddenly wet. ‘ _Please_ -’

Jehan takes his cock in hand, pressing kisses to his face. ‘Shh, don’t cry.’ Montparnasse thrusts into his grip, panting. ‘I’m not _fucking_ crying’, he hisses, and then his legs jerk and he comes over Jehan’s hand, sobbing. When Jehan comes moments later, Montparnasse’s cheeks are wet.

He flops onto Montparnasse’s chest, kissing the tears away from his cheeks. Montparnasse squirms. ‘G’roff.’

‘I made you _cry’_ , Jehan says. He traces the tracks on Montparnasse’s skin with a finger, and Montparnasse wiggles half-heartedly.

‘Fuck you.’

‘Not just yet, you don’t’, Jehan says, giggling. He brushes Montparnasse’s spent, over-sensitive cock with his fingers, and Montparnasse squeaks and then glares. ‘You’re not quite the spring chicken you once were. Give yourself ten minutes.’

Montparnasse huffs. ‘I have to get to the Klub.’ He gets out of bed, and this time Jehan can appreciate the view. The insides of his thighs are damp and sticky, his hair completely wild, and Jehan grins to himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'helena, are you going to progress the plot anytime soon?' asks Hypothetical Reader  
> 'GO AWAY I'M WRITING THE SIDE CHARACTERS FUCKING'  
> yeah sorry next chapter contains actual plot i swear


	9. Chapter 9

Grantaire is good at many things- including some things Enjolras had never even heard of before- but being quiet is not one of them. Even when he’s trying his best, tiptoeing around Enjolras as he engages in a glaring match with his typewriter, he only has to stretch or chew on his lip in a particularly distracting way and Enjolras’s mind goes completely blank. He doesn’t know if Grantaire is doing it on purpose or if he really is just that far gone, but eventually he gives up, finding a quiet, cheap café that doesn’t kick him out for nursing a single cup of coffee for hours as he writes.

It’s the first really sunny day of the year. The breeze is still cool, but the sunlight dapples prettily through the trees and it’s warm enough that he takes a table outside, cupping his hands around his cooling coffee whenever his fingers get cold. He’s almost down to the dregs when he feels a hand on his arm.

‘Bitte, helfen mir.’

He knows some basic German by now, but the unexpectedness of being touched by a stranger knocks it entirely out of his head. ‘I, uh- pardon me?’

The man looks haggard, desperate. His clothes are worn and dirty, and the shoulder seam of his jacket is coming undone. ‘Please. Help me.’ He holds out an empty hand. ‘I have no work. Please help.’

Enjolras fumbles in his pockets. Two marks- enough for the cup of coffee he has in front of him, and no more. ‘I’m very sorry, I don’t-’

‘Please.’ The man’s grip tightens on his arm, his fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket. Enjolras is suddenly very aware of how he looks- good suit, expensive typewriter, smart shoes- and he searches his pockets again, in the vain hope that money will somehow materialise under his fingers. Still nothing. ‘I’m so sorry-’

‘Here.’ The man releases his grip on Enjolras’s arm, and he looks up to see Babet pressing a note into the man’s hand. He thanks Babet, cramming the money into his pocket as though it might escape, and leaves. Babet watches him go, his expression unreadable.

‘I would have- I mean, I didn’t have anything’, Enjolras starts, embarrassed. ‘Things have been a little-’

Babet takes the seat beside him. ‘I understand. Things are bad all around.’ When Enjolras merely nods, he goes on. ‘That man is one of millions. Millions of German men, good workers, begging in the street.’ There’s a pause where he looks hard at Enjolras, seemingly searching his face for something. ‘Things will change.’

‘Of course. I’m sure-’

‘We will make sure.’ Enjolras is taken aback by the force of his conviction. He sounds almost like Combeferre, or even Enjolras himself. This is a kind of passion he would never have expected from Babet. On the few occasions they have run into one another, or Babet has insisted on buying him a drink, he has never shown any sign of a social conscience.

‘I didn’t realise you were…’ He tails off, not wanting to accuse him of being shallow. Babet doesn’t seem to catch the implication. He gazes down the street, in the direction the man disappeared.

‘Germany is my motherland. Men like him are my brothers.’ He glances at Enjolras. ‘There is a way you can help.’

Enjolras’s back straightens. ‘If I can-’

‘There are- things that we need brought into Berlin from Paris. Supplies.’ Babet is looking intently at Enjolras. His hand on the table makes a motion as if to take Enjolras’s, but he doesn’t. ‘The customs officers rarely search the bags of non-Germans.’ He looks away, embarrassed. ‘You see- when we met on the train…’

Enjolras remembers Babet’s nervousness, the briefcase he placed among Enjolras’s bags, and things fall into place. ‘I see.’

‘I am sorry to have deceived you.’ He looks genuinely embarrassed. Strangely, this makes Enjolras trust him more. He’s no stranger to those sorts of tricks. ‘I would like to make it up to you. If you are in need of money- I will pay you to take a short trip to Paris. You would go to an address I gave you, collect a briefcase, and come back.’ Babet looks Enjolras in the eye. ‘Seventy-five marks. And it would be for a very good cause. The cause of men like him.’ He nods down the street.

Enjolras hesitates only for a moment. ‘When do I leave?’

 

*****

 

When he gets back to the lodgings-house, the hallway is- yet again- in uproar. Courfeyrac is hastily doing up his dressing gown as Fraulein Fantine fumes. ‘Out with him, then. Come, come, I love to meet yet more of your _family_. Where is this one from? A cousin, perhaps? From Munich?’

‘Exactly so.’ Courfeyrac gestures through the gap in the door. After a moment, a young man appears, with wild, messy dark curls sticking in every direction. He smiles sheepishly at Fraulein Fantine.

‘Fraulein, this is Joly. Joly, th-’

A crash comes from inside Courfeyrac’s room, along with the sounds of a voice cursing. Fraulein Fantine raises a single, deadly eyebrow. ‘Such a very _large_ family’, she says, in a voice of ice.

‘…Yes’, Courfeyrac says, after a long silence. He seems to have lost some of his usual charm and exuberance. ‘Yes, ah. Bossuet, do come out and meet Fraulein Fantine.’

Enjolras flees.

 

*****

 

 

‘ _Seventy-five marks?’_

‘It would only be for a couple of days. He’ll pay for the train-’

Grantaire laughs. ‘Fuck, I’m not _complaining._ I wish someone would pay me seventy-five marks to go to Paris. Must be nice, having a face like yours.’ Seeing Enjolras’s expression, he rolls his eyes and pulls a bottle of gin out from under the bed. ‘A toast. To our good fortune, and your beautiful, irresistible face.’ Enjolras clinks his glass against Grantaire’s and takes a sip, trying his utmost not to pull a face.

There’s a knock at the door and it opens, revealing Fraulein Fantine. She looks flushed, breathless, and somehow younger. ‘I may enter?’

Grantaire smiles and raises his glass. ‘We were just having a drink, Fraulein. Do join us.’

She hesitates, but after a moment smiles and extends a hand to take the proffered glass. ‘After all, why not?’ She pats her hair every few seconds, making minute adjustments. Enjolras has never seen her smile so much. She takes a swig of her gin, without wincing.

‘I came to inform you that I am to be married’, she says. The words are stiff, but the corners of her mouth twitch upwards. ‘That is to say- Herr Valjean and I-’

Grantaire seizes her hand. ‘Fraulein, that’s wonderful.’ Enjolras waits for the cynicism, the railing against the oppressive institution of marriage, but it doesn’t come. ‘We have to celebrate. We’re having a party. An engagement party.’

Fraulein Fantine laughs. ‘Oh, of course. I am the life of the party.’ She pats Grantaire’s hand. ‘Who do I know, beyond my rooms? No-one. What a party it would be.’

‘I’ll do the inviting.’ There’s a gleam in Grantaire’s eye that makes Enjolras a little nervous. ‘Your engagement will be the toast of all Berlin. I will see to it.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i haven't updated in a while, my personal life has suddenly got very fraught and i don't have much time for writing. i promise things will get back on track as soon as things go back to normal.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: NAZISM AND ANTI-SEMITISM

Enjolras gets back from Paris the day of the engagement party. He returns to Fraulein Schneider’s lodgings to find them almost completely empty, and wanders, confused, from room to room, case in hand, before he remembers the party being held at Herr Valjean’s fruit shop on the Nollendorfplatz.

When he arrives, the party is already in full swing. Grantaire is dancing with a tall, muscled man who he vaguely recognizes, but can’t quite place until he notices the tattoos. Now he looks around, actually, quite a few of the guests seem to be former clients of Courfeyrac’s. Bahorel gives him an enormous wink and whispers something in Grantaire’s ear. Grantaire turns and grins, grabbing Enjolras and kissing him soundly and lastingly on the mouth in a way Enjolras would never have dreamed of doing in public. ‘Oh, don’t look so appalled, darling. After all, this is Berlin.’ It’s true that about fifty percent of the guests seem to be young, attractive men dancing or talking with other young, attractive men. Still, Enjolras can’t help but splutter a little. Grantaire rolls his eyes and pats him on the cheek.

‘How was Paris? Divine?’

‘As always.’ He shifts the case under his arm, a little uncomfortable. ‘Is Babet here? I’d like to get rid of this.’

Grantaire shrugs. ‘I haven’t seen him. He tends to turn up just as everyone is getting drunk.’ He grabs Enjolras’s hand, leading him over to a box left on a chair. ‘Look, come and see the gift we’re giving the happy couple.’ He opens the box to reveal an extremely ostentatious cut crystal fruit bowl.

‘It’s divine’, Enjolras says, smiling. Someone taps him on the shoulder and he turns to see Fraulein Fantine in a fashionable floral-print dress, with Herr Valjean in a suit at her side.

‘Fraulein!’ Grantaire says. ‘Congratulations! Here, open our present. We just can’t hold off any longer.’ He thrusts the box into her arms. Fraulein Fantine opens it and her eyes light up. ‘Oh! Herr Valjean, look!’ She hands the box to him and clasps Enjolras’s hand between her own. ‘I have no words.’ Enjolras is taken aback to notice tears in her eyes. ‘It’s nothing, Fraulein, really.’ He’s rescued by the appearance of Courfeyrac, who looks different in a way Enjolras can’t identify until he realises this is the first time he’s seen him fully dressed. There’s yet another attractive young man at his elbow, this one deeply tanned and freckled with a wide smile.

Courfeyrac seizes Fraulein Fantine’s hand. ‘Many congratulations, Fraulein. I have no doubt you’ll be very happy.’ He punctuates this with a lewd wink in Herr Valjean’s direction, who looks more than a little flustered and almost drops the fruit bowl. Courfeyrac gestures at the young man behind him. ‘Is my, uh, brother welcome? Fraulein, this is Feuilly, Feuilly, Fraulein Fantine. Tonight is her night.’

Feuilly seizes Fraulein Fantine’s hand and pumps it enthusiastically. ‘It’s my pleasure. Might I beg the honour of a dance?’

‘Oh, but you are so young…It is out of the qu…’ Feuilly seizes her hand and twirls her, mid-protest. Fantine laughs, clutching at her hair. ‘Well, then, one dance. But you must return me after to my fiancé.’ Feuilly pulls her away to the makeshift dance floor. Herr Valjean watches her go, smiling.

‘I believe you have something of mine’, says a voice in Enjolras’s ear, making him jump. Babet is wearing a heavy overcoat and smiling, his hair neatly combed. He gestures at the case under Enjolras’s arm.

‘Oh, of course.’ He hands it over, feeling foolish. Babet reaches inside his coat and draws out an envelope. ‘And for you.’ Enjolras stuffs it into his pocket, feeling a little seedy for carrying out an exchange like this in the middle of Fraulein Fantine’s party.

‘It’s a gift from Heaven’, Grantaire says. ‘However would we get on without you, Babet?’

‘You are helping a very good cause. And now, I must go and congratulate the bride-to-be.’ He inclines his head and moves away. Grantaire extends a hand to Enjolras, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards. ‘May I have this dance?’

He leads him out among the dancers, Enjolras stumbling awkwardly as Grantaire sways him to no particular rhythm. ‘Careful, that was my shin. Didn’t your mother teach you to dance?’

‘She tried’, Enjolras says, staring over the top of Grantaire’s head in an effort not to watch his own feet. He can see Éponine talking to Babet, who is looking much happier about it than she is. After a moment, he appears to ask her to dance, which she reluctantly accepts.

‘Enjolras!’ Babet says, waving him over. ‘If you are finished amusing us all, perhaps you will watch my bag while I dance with this young lady?’ Éponine widens her eyes significantly at him and mouths something, but Enjolras can’t think of an excuse fast enough. He takes the bag Babet hands to him, and holds out his arms to receive his heavy-looking coat as Éponine makes threatening gestures from behind him.

Babet shucks it off, and something bright red on his arm catches Enjolras’s eye. An armband, with a white circle and black swastika. Enjolras’s stomach drops. He grabs Babet by the arm, feeling nausea rise in his throat.

‘This is what you had me working for? This is the _good cause_?’

Babet looks a little nervous. ‘I am sorry if I mislead you. I would not like our politics to come between us.’ Enjolras is frozen with anger. Babet gives a little smile and a shrug. ‘But what is so terrible, Enjolras? It is only politics. Would you spoil a wonderful party like this?’

‘I’m surprised you think so’, Enjolras spits. ‘I know what you people think of people like Herr Valjean.’

‘I do not understand.’ Then his face hardens. ‘ Herr Valjean…is a Jew?’ When Enjolras doesn’t say anything more, Babet turns, pushing through the dancers and pulling Fraulein Fantine aside. Enjolras moves after them.

‘…must advise you against this marriage. It is unwise, Fraulein, you must see that. I am thinking only of your welfare.’

Fraulein Fantine’s eyes are cold. ‘And Herr Valjean’s welfare?’

Babet’s lips thin to near non-existence. ‘He is not a German.’

‘He was born here-’

‘ _He is not a German._ ’ Babet’s face is twisted and ugly. ‘Fraulein, you and I are old friends. For your sake, I beg you to reconsider.’ He takes her hand and lifts it to his lips. Then he turns on his heel and walks out, leaving Fraulein Fantine frozen in the midst of the dancers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now all of the amis have officially made an appearance. (sorry, marius. i swear to god i am trying to work him in but it is not easy)  
> i make it a rule to never write enjolras and eponine interacting without eponine threatening him in some way


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: Nazism, violence, gendered slurs, anti-Semetism, book-burning, vague allusion to homophobia already discussed in this fic

Enjolras tries, he really does. He tries to budget, to learn to stretch a loaf of bread for a week. But he just isn’t used to handling money, and it seems to vanish like magic.

‘Being someone’s kept woman sounded so much more glamorous in novels’, Grantaire says one night, when the window won’t shut properly and they’re jammed together in the bed, stiff with cold. Enjolras tries to laugh, but he can’t help but feel like he’s failed him.

‘I could get a job’, he attempts. Grantaire just laughs. ‘No, darling, you couldn’t.’

The thing is, he knows he could write to his mother and ask for more money, and she’d most likely give it to him. But the thought of spending more money in this city, where he sees more and more the groups of young men in uniforms, the people beaten into the pavement on street corners while people around them hurry past with their shopping and avert their eyes, and once a huge bonfire where books writhed and shriveled in the flames and the night air was full of paper and ash, makes him sick. This is not a city for pleasure anymore, but the people keep on dancing and singing and drinking as if they can’t see. Grantaire still drags him to endless parties, and the parties are still just the same, even if some of the handsome young men wear uniforms now.

‘Come back to England with me’, he says. Grantaire turns around in his arms and looks into his eyes.

‘We love it here.’ There’s a strange, hard note in his voice. Enjolras pulls away in exasperation.

‘Do we? Do we still? Wake up, Grantaire. The party in Berlin is long over. You just can’t bear to admit it.’

‘Oh, yes, and it’d be such a riot back home’, Grantaire hisses. ‘Not all of us have Mummy’s welcoming arms to rush back into, you know. Or have you forgotten how my family feels about me?’

Enjolras winces. ‘You don’t need them. You have me.’ Grantaire just looks at him, cold. ‘I’ll get you a job in the Party.’

A smile tugs at the corner of Grantaire’s mouth. He raises an eyebrow. ‘Are you trying to indoctrinate me, darling?’

‘Is it working?’

Grantaire looks at him for a long moment before he laughs. ‘How could I ever resist you?’

 

*****

 

Fraulein Fantine comes into their room on a morning a few days later. She’s carrying a box, and it takes Enjolras a moment to recognise it as the same one they gave her at her engagement party.

‘Fraulein Fantine, is that the fruit bowl? Is there something the matter with it?’

Fraulein Fantine looks older than he has ever seen her look. ‘No, nothing the matter. Only…it is an engagement present. And there is no engagement.’ She puts the box down on the chair and turns to leave. ‘Thank you for your kindness.’

Grantaire grabs her arm. ‘You’d let a few words from an man like Babet spoil your happiness?’

She smiles, hard and bitter. ‘Two days ago they threw a brick through his shop window. Yesterday it was written on the door. _Juden_.’ Her voice breaks. ‘I am not a coward. But they will take my rooms away. If I- If I-’ She looks from Grantaire to Enjolras. ‘What else can I do?’

‘Fraulein, you mustn't give up in that way’, Enjolras says. The words sound hollow even to him. She rounds on him.

‘Oh, yes, I can. That is easy to say, easy for you. Fight! And what does it matter if you fail? It is easy for you. But if you were me- this is all I have. Can you understand that? If they take it away…if they…’ She puts a hand over her mouth. Enjolras has to fight the urge to look away. He feels as if he’s intruding. It takes her a moment to collect herself, one slow breath in, and then she is back just as she was, unmovable. ‘I have survived on my own this long. Why should I break that habit now? Cosette and I, we will survive. Just as always. Just as I have survived everything else. When the world ends I will still be here, Herr Enjolras. Still renting my rooms. For in the end, what other choice have I?’

The silence after she closes the door behind her stretches. Grantaire picks up the fruit bowl, running his fingers over the carvings.

‘Rather ugly, isn’t it? I don’t know what I was thinking.’

‘I bought the tickets’, Enjolras blurts out. Grantaire stares at him, fingers clenched around the fruit bowl. ‘We’re going home, Grantaire.’

Grantaire exhales slowly. ‘Oh, well, in that case. Shall we have a going-away party? I’ll just ring up-’

‘Your Nazi friends?’ Enjolras snaps. Grantaire goes white. ‘I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to see us go. They can march us out of the country at gunpoint. But we are going back to England. Back to where I can actually do some good.’ He sweeps the accumulated rubbish off his case, starts throwing things in. ‘We leave the day after tomorrow. So you might as well start packing.’

Grantaire doesn’t move. A horrible smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. ‘And what should I do in England?’

‘I told you, I’ll get you something-’

‘In the _Party_.’ Grantaire’s still smiling, that horrible, impenetrable smile. ‘Grantaire the Socialist. What an image. You should have been an artist, darling. You’ve got the imagination.’

‘Whereas here you have _so much_ ’, Enjolras spits. He gestures around the room at Grantaire’s mess, the empty gin bottles, the window with its broken latch. ‘All the gin you can drink and a steady stream of wealthy fascists to whore yourself out to. I don’t know how I could ask you to leave such a fulfilling existence.’

The silence rings in their ears. Enjolras takes out the tickets and puts them down on the case in front of Grantaire. Grantaire follows them with his eyes, still immobile.

‘Call the Klub. Tell them it’s goodbye for good. Then _start packing_.’ Grantaire stares him down. ‘For once in your life, Grantaire, face the truth about yourself.’

He almost doesn’t hear Grantaire’s reply as he closes the door behind him.

‘Maybe I will.’

 

*****

 

Enjolras gets halfway to his usual café before he realises he has no money. He stands on the street corner, shaking hands shoved deep into his pockets, not knowing what to do.

‘Enjolras.’ Babet seems to appear beside him out of nowhere. ‘I have been trying to reach you at Fraulein Fantine’s. I have another errand for you.’

‘I’m not interested’, Enjolras spits between clenched teeth. Babet laughs. ‘Can you really afford such principles, Enjolras? In this day and age, who can?’ He puts a hand on Enjolras’s arm. Enjolras wrenches it away. ‘I will pay you double.’

‘Get away from me.’

‘Why should you condemn yourself to such poverty?’ Babet looks genuinely baffled. ‘I am your friend, Enjolras. And I know you need the money. So why won’t you go?’ He peers into Enjolras’s face, and something seems to occur to him. ‘It is because of that Jew at the party-’

Enjolras’s fist slams into his jaw with a horrible crunch.

The uniforms appear from nowhere. There are hands on his arms, pinning him, and then a fist connects with his face, a knee with his stomach, and he is on his knees, the cold of the pavement seeping through to his bones. He doesn’t struggle, barely makes a sound, as a boot comes down on his arm with a _crack_ , something hard knocks the air out of him, a dull flash of pain blooms across his cheek. There is nothing to fight back against but polished black boots, and so he doesn’t try, and the people hurry past with averted eyes as he has seen them do so many times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> try not to imagine fantine singing what would you do unless you want to cry


	12. Chapter 12

Grantaire doesn’t come back to their room until the next morning. His skin is pallid and shiny with sweat, his hands are visibly shaking and the skin beneath his eyes is black with smudged makeup and exhaustion.

‘You haven’t packed’, Enjolras says, just for something to say. He badly needs to sit down, but he can’t quite manage movement. The side of his face throbs with dull regularity, and every one of his joints feels as though it has been filled with ice. He holds onto the bed-frame for support. Grantaire just stares at him, not bothering to push the hair out of his eyes. ‘We’re leaving, remember? We’re going home.’

Grantaire takes in his bloody, disheveled clothing, his collection of bruises. His expression doesn’t change. ‘With that face?’

Enjolras lifts a hand to touch his cheek and winces. ‘You’re not looking so great yourself.’ Grantaire doesn’t respond. ‘Please just pack.’

‘Enjolras-’

‘Don’t.’ The room sways a little. He tightens his grip on the bed-frame. ‘Just don’t say it, whatever it is. Let’s just- just forget about the last twelve hours, all right? Forget that you got even with me by staying out all night, forget everything.’ His eyes are drawn to Grantaire’s shaking hands, a small point of movement in his stillness. ‘I’m- I’m sorry, Grantaire. For what I said. It was- I’m sorry.’ He touches Grantaire’s face. Grantaire doesn’t flinch, doesn’t respond at all. ‘You’re so cold. Where have you been all night?’

Grantaire sits down on the bed. ‘You know what I’d love? A spot of gin.’ He reaches into a pocket of his overcoat and draws out a half-full bottle.

‘Where did you get that’, Enjolras says, the cold in his bones spreading through his flesh. ‘Grantaire, where did you get the mon-’

Grantaire’s eyes go to the chair where Enjolras left the tickets. Enjolras follows his gaze. There’s nothing there. ‘No.’

‘You wanted me to face the truth about myself.’ Grantaire takes in Enjolras’s frozen expression and laughs, harsh and empty. ‘Oh, darling, what did you expect? That I’d be your little woman? I can just see it now. Garden parties, cocktails on the lawn, and won’t Mummy be thrilled that you’ve found a nice girl at last? I’m a dab hand at croquet, you know.’

‘Stop.’

‘Gin’s expensive these days, darling. I couldn’t get a whole bottle for the tickets, not at the last minute like that.’ He meets Enjolras’s eye. ‘Not _just_ for the tickets. You know, it’s been a while since I did that in the gentlemen’s. It was chillier than I remember. Or perhaps I’m getting old.’

Enjolras is frozen. ‘The gentlemen’s-’

Grantaire laughs and puts out a hand to touch Enjolras’s face.  The bruises ache where he touches them. ‘Oh, darling. You’re such an innocent.’

Enjolras jerks away. He starts throwing his things into the case, not caring that it hurts, not feeling anything but the roaring in his blood. Grantaire stands there, immobile, watching him.

‘Isn’t it funny, it always ends this way. Even when I do finally love someone terribly, for the first- the f-’ Enjolras slows, the energy of his anger dissipating, until he’s simply hunched over the case, staring down at his crumpled belongings. ‘But it’s still not quite enough.’

He feels something cold touch his cheek. Grantaire is holding out the gin bottle. Enjolras takes it numbly and takes a swig that he barely tastes.

‘I’d spoil it. I’d ruin whatever happiness you could find, whatever you thought you- we- had. Like I’ve r-ruined this. I couldn’t keep on being who you wanted me to be, Enjolras. That’s too heavy a burden for a washed-up queer in a dress like me.’

‘Don’t’, Enjolras says, rounding on him, ‘don’t _talk_ l-’

‘No, you’re right. I shouldn’t. Because you never could bear to hear me talk, could you?’

The silence roars around them. Enjolras tries to look at Grantaire and finds that he can’t. He stares at the gin bottle instead, trying to accept that this is the last time he will be in a room with Grantaire, hoping that by acknowledging it he can stop time and hold off the pain he knows is coming. He wants more than anything to be able to look into Grantaire’s eyes as he could only a day ago. He doesn’t want this to be his last memory of him. It already feels like his only one.

Grantaire’s fingers are cold on his jaw. Enjolras flinches, and Grantaire laughs. It seems to echo in the cold, ringing silence.

‘Do you permit it?’

His lips leave behind the taste of stale alcohol. When he opens his eyes, Grantaire is gone.

*****

 

 

 

‘Deutsche Grenzkontrolle. Ihre Pass, bitte.’

Enjolras jolts himself out of his haze. He fishes in his pockets before he finds and hands over his passport without glancing the guard’s way, continuing to stare out of the window as he checks it. He’s the only one in the carriage. He hopes it stays that way.

‘I hope you have enjoyed your stay in Germany, Herr Enjolras.’ It’s a ticket collector’s uniform he’s wearing, not a Nazi one, but it doesn’t matter. They don’t have to wear the uniforms these days. ‘And you will return again soon.’ It sounds like an order.

‘It’s unlikely’, he says, as coldly as he can muster. The man glances sharply at him.

‘You did not find our country beautiful?’

It’s Grantaire that comes to his mind, Grantaire of the green nail polish and the wicked smile, the sinful lips and the gin and the final, bitter way he laughed. ‘Yes’, Enjolras says. ‘Yes, I found it beautiful.’

He gets out his notebook, barely used in his time in Berlin, and stares at a blank page.

_There was a Cabaret, and there was a Master of Ceremonies, and there was a city called Berlin in a country called Germany. It was the end of the world. I was dancing with Grantaire, and we were both fast asleep…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't believe this is over  
> i am SO SORRY to any of you who didn't know how cabaret ends (no i'm not i live off your tears)  
> but yeah THANK YOU SO SO MUCH FOR READING I LOVE YOU ALL [blows kisses]  
> sorry i didn't manage to work marius into this fic but overall it's probably a lucky escape for him  
> come say hi on tumblr im at eldergrantaire


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